That funky monkey...

My very first freelancing article is up! I wrote a (somewhat exhaustive) piece for JobMonkey.com about Overseas Volunteering and you can see it in all its glory here. It's almost 50 pages long...I don't expect that anyone who is not actually looking to be a volunteer would read it...but yay me!

Give a little, take a little

In a better, brighter world I would have a picture of my gallbladder to post on this blog, with a very short description of the last four days. But sadly after Friday's emergency surgery, they didn't let me keep my apparently-useless organ, nor did they give me any photos. Actually, due to some unfortunate translation, I spent two days thinking I had surgery for kidney stones, and not a complete removal of my gallbladder. People go back and forth between feeling sorry for me and thinking that we're all idiots. In fairness, Chilean doctors (even good-looking, half-Australian, English-speaking ones) are less than forthcoming. They told me over and over the name of my ailment and surgery, assuming that I knew what at "colecistectomia" was. I thought it was a removal of kidney stones. Not the case.

Farewell sweet gallbladder! You will be missed. As will my pride.

Canciones de Amor

There is a great song called Canciones de Amor by a Mexican singer/songwriter named Julieta Venegas. I've recently been listening to nothing but her music in my ipod, causing me to now associate her lyrics with various places in Santiago that I might pass ("No seré una mujer perfecta" means Parque Balmaceda, for example). I was listening to Canciones de Amor during my train ride to Rancaugua this weekend, and it made me wistful and giggly. It doesn't have particularly uplifting lyrics (Estoy tan cansada de las canciones de amor/siempre hablan de un final feliz/pero sabemos que la vida nunca funcion asi***) but the bouncy guitar and somewhat optimistic tone offset the pessimism (and I believe, truth) of the lyrics. I am obsessed with this song.

I am that girl that girl who believes that love stories and love songs don't really happen, and that people make them up. Every relationship I've ever been in, or known of even, has ended with the destruction of one or both parties - no happy endings there. I don't know if that's just my generation, and if we aren't programmed for the long-term anymore, or that romance is dead...I have no idea. It's kind of amazing how many girls came down here thinking that they would meet some wonderful, romantic man...the kind of man they believe they can't meet in New York or San Francisco or Madison, WI. I didn't even have the optimism to hope that would happen to me; Santiago men proved to me in my first few days that they are not so unlike New York men. I will give them credit for having some wonderfully forthcoming pick-up lines, though.

I'm wrong about all of it. Something pretty amazing happened to me in the hot springs of Termas de Cauquenes. It was novella-worthy (and more than likely I'll go ahead and write a short-story about it). I met someone, we connected, I left....we'll probably never see each other again. But the whole thing was so hopeful and bizarre. There's so obviously no long-term relationship there, no happy ending in the traditional sense. But maybe that's what Julieta really means, that happy endings just aren't what they used to be. Because I'm certainly happy just having had the experience of living outside of my life for two days with someone new, who for some reason understood me as much as I understood him (in Spanish, to boot!). I'm happy that romance is alive and well and living outside of Rancaugua.

That's my happy ending.

the English translation
***I'm so tired of love songs/always talking about a happy ending/but we know that life never turns out that way****

Night Moves

I looked around my apartment/office yesterday. I was alone, and searching for a kitten that I'm kitten-sitting, and which hides all day under either the couch or my bed. Or behind the suitcases next to Luke's desk or on Liz's chair. Or in the bodega surrounded by Becca and Katie's (her mommies) stuff. Or anywhere really, that is nowhere near me. Because the cat hates me.

She hates me so much that she waits until I am mid-way through a beautiful dream - where I am a lonely back-up singer for a faceless, guitar-playing gentlemen named Jack Crawford, who one day sees my latent talent for pitch-perfect harmonies as exactly what he needs to bring focus to his next album and we form an indie music duo, fall in love, develop a dedicated cult following and refuse to go mainstream; just as we begin playing our intimate farewell concert at the Great American Music Hall to an emotional crowd (so that we can retire and I can begin my second career as a private detective)- to curl her little paw into a little fist, and punch me in the nose until I wake up. It is 4am.

It's like she can sense that I have a dog preference, or that when I see her little food bowl in my room I flash forward 10 years and I'm changing some other cats food bowl and cursing the day I let the first cat into my life. Why is it only ok to be single and have a dog?

She was a street cat, rescued and nursed back to life. She's had a hard life, and she's in a new place, with lots of traffic noise and weird gringo volunteers coming in to use the bathroom. Why don't I feel more for her? Am I as cold and heartless as so many believe? Or are cats just ridiculously creepy?

Vive LaKeaneo!

The Vive Latino music festival, held in Santiago's Club Hipico (its a racetrack) on Sunday was my first concert since I moved to Chile. I can't believe it, really, since I used to see live music once a week when I lived in New York, and it isn't like they don't have any here. Just poor prioritizing, I guess.

In our usual form, we only caught the last four hours of the 12 hour festival thanks to an unfortunate map-reading blunder and my tendency to ignore everything that anyone says to me in the street, even if it is directions to Club Hipico. Its a defense mechanism, really.

I was familiar with some of the bands in the 22-strong line-up, and was happy to be introduced to Los Jaivas and Vicentico (formerly of the Los Fabulosos Cadillacs...if you don't know the song "Vamos a Bailar Toda la Noche" you should). It was also just nice to be outside; as the weather gets colder this will happen less and less.

But of course, there was a lot of random weirdness. For example: The fest was sponsored by Cristal. I love me some Cristal, because there is a giant billboard (which lights up in happiness, and shows the time and temperature) on the roof of my buiding, and because they make beer in green, red and black flavors, which is awesome. The whole park was filled with giant inflatable Cristal cans, tempting and teasing me. But there was no Cristal to be had. Actually, after 8pm there was no anything to be consumed, and people lined up around random water spickets to hydrate.

The other thing was...Keane. They were the closing band, drawing the biggest crowd. I have nothing against Keane, and as it turns out they were successful in Chile before they even broke out in the States....but at a Vive Latino festival? Really? Que raro, po!

Aquí Estamos

I'm letting this speak for itself....

Always the Best Friend, Never the Bride

The title of this post is this short story that I'm working on, which is very self-effacing and dramatic. I was going to post a excerpt of it, just to have it out there so in the hopes that I might get some feedback and get over my fear of ever having anyone read my work. Since I've been selling writing now, I'm going to have to get used to people actually publishing it. But I digress. I've decided not to publish said short story excerpt, for now, because many more people read this blog than I thought (I'm tracking you all, pts)...and I'm simply not ready for this kind of committment.

Young Combatants Day/Día del Joven Combatiente

I'll admit right now that I don't regularly read and Chilean newspapers. Occasionally when I'm on the metro in the morning I get my hands on the Publimetro, or I'll buy El Mercurio if it is a particularly interesting day (Pinochet's death, Bachelet's election, etc). Since my self-informing activities primarily take place after the fact, I was not prepared for today.

Alameda's storefronts (Santiago's Broadway) were closed. Buses were few. The metro closed early. Volunteers were tear gassed. We received this warning early this morning:

"There may be protests and such things. While there is no reason to be alarmed, I think it would be wise to be aware of your surroundings and not to go wandering too much in the city."

What? I don't know what this means. Seriously, since Transantiago came, there is a protest everyday.

But wait:

from the Santiago Times

"CHILE: STREET PROTESTS, TEARGAS COMMEMORATE 1985 DEATH OF YOUNG PINOCHET OPPONENTS"

"Flying rocks and teargas marked the 22nd annual Young Combatants’ Day, which commemorates the slaying of brothers Eduardo and Rafael Vergara Toledo by Augusto Pinochet’s military forces in 1985." rest of article...

en Español, de El Mercurio

"Alta seguridad para evitar los desmanes"

"Se acordó cierre de 5 universidades y protección a buses del Transantiago." leer más

They say its the worst its been in years. The city is empty but full of tension all at the same time, with an eerie, micro-free silence broken periodically by the sounds of yelling or chanting or bottles breaking.

The wounds of this country, the dictatorship and its results, are far from healed.

A Touch of Grey

This week fall came rumbling in (literally...there were two earthquakes this morning). We haven't seen the sun since monday, and our window-filled office turned in to a n icy wind-tunnel. As I've explained many times, Chile isn't all that cold (climate is like northern California, at least in Santiago), but so few places (including my apartment) have heat that when its cold outside, its also cold inside. And everything is made of concrete. So its cold, and dark and I have three grants due tomorrow and I've been cranky all week. So here is a foto of my last really great day:

Kids. Playdoh. Punto.

7 days

Has it really been more than 7 days? I'm so in trouble.

This post is going to showcase my vanity, because I did something potentially traumatizing, but absolutely necessary, with mixed results: I cut my own bangs.

Many know of my struggle with the bang, beginning with an undying hatred and quickly advancing to obsession as my stand-in stylist "KC" cut my first bangs in such an amateurish fashion that I stormed out of the salon. "What was I thinking?" I thought to myself, as I walked up 3rd avenue to hide in my room until they grew out.

My last bang experience was when I was 5, and my grandma took me on one of her secret trips to the Lemon Tree at the mall, against my parents explicit instructions. It didn't bother me all that much before, because I was a child and she used to give me cookies. But on this particular day, she had me get the most heinous, tiger looking bowl cut ever, and when I showed up at school the following Monday my kinder-friends pretended they didn't know who I was.

Thus, the bangs have always been a difficult for me to deal with. I took a big chance with KC, as my previous little man fled the 34th Street Dramatics without telling me where he was going, and I (gasp) decided to just walk-in. I brought a photo, just to be safe, but still KC failed.

But they the ray of hope who is "Flame" fixed my bangs, and gave me perhaps the best haircut I've ever had. I was "banged" for life so to speak, and have kept a variation of the cut ever since.

And then there was Chile, where haircuts are only $5-$10 but trying to explain "sideswept" in Spanish is a challenge. I braved one salon about 4 months ago. Oh sweet lord. Never again.

Flame told me never to cut my own bangs. Does it make sense that a person whom I pay lots of money to to cut my hair would say this? Of course. However, she had a point...knowing the consequences of the bad bangs, why would I attempt such a precarious activity?

Because I'm an idiot, that's why. I cut my poor bangs in a fit of rage, using dull office scissors. Because I have absolutely no patience. Because really, who cares anyway?

Pity me.

You can get it if you really want

As many of you know, I left New York for a variety of reasons. One of which was some unfortunate luck concerning me, the New York City subway system, and vomit. Not my vomit, but a stranger's vomit. So imagine my surprise and chagrin when I discovered that Santiago would be switching over to an MTA-clone transit system "Transantiago"(aren't they clever) which involves shuttling people about with heavy dependence on the Metro (subway). There are long, caterpillar-looking express buses, and little local buses. They renumbered and rerouted everything. Its a fucking mess.

In theory, this was a good idea. The old system was very unfriendly to the environment (noise and air pollution were out of control with the constant stream of old, gas guzzling micros), and more than a little unfriendly to people that value their personal safety. Micros drove fast, and often drivers would compete with each other, speeding away from traffic lights and cutting off other micros. More than once, I saw mirrors tumble to the ground or people fail to step fully onto the micro before it pulled away, leaving them staggering in the middle of the intersection.

I sort of loved the micros. Because of the blonde hair (and presumably, the boobs) I was usually given a seat. Sure, people watched me sit and read, but I never got pick-pocketed or hassled (beyond the usual catcalls that I get in the street). Since you paid the driver in cash, you could haggle and talk your way onto the micro (especially in a group) for as little as $.20 (100 pesos). In the summer, you could count on the ice cream man coming through with his "Chirimoyamoracremapiñadoblecienpesitosheladoooooss", giving you instant and cheap release from the stifling heat. Men with guitars sang traditional songs and/or told jokes. People on the micros were the real chileans.

I like to call transantiago the "transit system scrubbed clean." Sure, the routes are easier to follow, there are maps everywhere and you can pay with a "bip!" card and receive free transfers. The buses don't simply stop for every old lady standing in the street waving her hankerchief, so travel is a bit more streamlined. But still, I've found myself waiting up to 45 minutes for a bus, or on a Metro platform because its so crowded that you simply can't get on (oh, memories on the 86th street 6 train...). In rerouting more than half the city to the Metro, they neglected to add enough new trains to handle all of them. Similarly, in an effort to meet their deadline for system change, they unveiled transantiago with 800 buses missing. In many ways it seems that people tend to prefer that things look nice even if they don't work all that well. In a country of astonishing economic disparity, its no wonder that the metros and buses serving Las Condes, Vitacura & Providencia (where the rich people live) are cleaner, more modern and running on time, while those in the south (where all of our institutions are) are older and harder to come by. Many people farther out of the city who had depended on one micro to get them home for their whole lives, now have nothing...there simply isn't any more service to their neighborhood.

A modern transportation system doesn't necessarily make a city more modern. It just brushes away all the dirt, hides the poor people among the masses and convinces itself that its working in their best interest. The next time I sit down next to a man talking about his 2 hour commute to work, and help an old lady figure out how to get in and of the cavernous, stair-filled metro, I'll remember why my friend Liz only takes collectivos now.

Ummm...yeah. People are pissed. There are protests almost every weekend, and sometimes it can be mayhem. Especially if the Colo Colo are playing.

And life is sweet...

I've spent the past three days in front of my computer, doing loads of research about and amazing amount of craziness. I searched in vain for someone to give me a comprhensive explanation of the past subjunctive mood, I tried to find a foundation with guidelines lenient enough that they would provide funding to one of our institutions (a shanytown nursery school) and I discovered flash fiction. Living almost exclusively in cyberland has been an experience, and made me realize that its scarily easy to get everything you need from the Internet - advice, news, social interaction, porn - a fact most people discovered back in 1999. But more than that, its possible to never leave your house for any reason, even when the sun is shining and there's a protest in the square and you're supposed to be taking children to the interactive museum.

Luckily night time was the right time, and over the weekend I did in fact leave the comforts of my L-shaped couch and cushion (that I sleep on...kind of like a dog bed, really but I prefer to think of it as bohemian chic) to hang out with our new volunteers (who ROCK) and do a little dancing. But the whole time, instead of feeling the overwhelming guilt of staring at a computer screen for 12 hours a day instead of hanging out with the kids (in fairness, there were more volunteers than children during the trip...I can't say that I was missed) I felt accomplished. I managed to cram tons of information into my head that was actually...dare I say...helpful in some way. It seemed like such a first, since I used to spend so much time at my old job poking around on the Internet to distract myself from my job. Maybe this is just what happens when your life becomes your job.

Well, have you?

Have you Goodsearched today? Might want to get on that.....

When we break free....

Remember Poe? I was so obsessed with her music...I'm gonna SoulSeek something fierce tonight!

Today is the day that everything changes here at ATGD...I'm going to blog with TREMENDOUS regularity (I'm fairly sure that you can't be tremendously regular, but you're just going to go with it). Of course, many posts are going to ridiculous, but I've neglected this blog for too long, and it stops right now.

The main impetus for this: I'm becoming a freelancer. No, seriously. You're going to see stuff that I've written around every corner of these here Internets. Why? Because month 9 in Chile is when Lauren goes broke. I love my job (even after an extremely rocky past few weeks...there were tears), and can't bear to leave even though they can't really afford to pay me. I write all day anyway (when I'm not running in a circle with the kids...school starts Tuesday!), and I'm going to try to get paid for it. My first submissions are in, and I'll start posting links when articles go up.

Summer is coming to an end (and yes, I know that sounds weird to you norteamericanos), and things are shifting gears again. The organization just had a major overhaul, resulting in a new administration and title change for me (hooray! i do it all for the glory!). We have twelve new volunteers going through the orientationmotions this week. And they're all, dare I say it, pretty happy.

This is such a major turnaround from a few months ago (I call it the dark period) that I almost don't trust it. The vols from this past class treated us with such contempt and animosity (some of it deserved, most of it not) that as much as I want to, I'm not sure that I can trust any of them anymore. How horrible is that? I've devoted my life to working with volunteers (hell, being a volunteer) and I'm having crazy trust issues! If I had health insurance, I'd transantiago my way to the shrink.

Jesus Camp

While I do have lots to say about Santiago and volunteers and all of that, I'm going to take this opportunity to say that I saw a FANTASTIC documentary that I apparently missed last summer (not so much with the documentaries in Chile, se supone). During a spirited discussion of everyone's camp experiences during last weekend's jornada, the movie Jesus Camp came up. It was my fault, as I refer to my own camp experience with those words. At first I thought that it was a movie about kids like me, who went to pseudo-religious/bible camps. Well, I wasn't prepared for what I saw at all. If not only for the image of a pre-disgraced Ted Haggard, this movie is alarming, and wonderful. Put it on your NetFlix list...and enjoy.

All By Myself

Ok, not really. I'm working in this hostel now, and for the first time since I started they've actually left me alone. Usually, the owner or one of the other worker bees (most of whom also live here) buzz buzz buzz around me all day, looking over my shoulder and asking me what I'm doing as I'm doing it. Might sound annoying, but it actually means I have very little to do throughout the day, as people inevitably do my work for me.

Less than halfway through my 9 hour shift I'm giving advice, washing sheets and smiling. I'm making it a point to smile all the time because, as I've been told many times this week, my face gives my emotions away. And it bugs people.

The hostel is therapy. The people hilarious. An drunk Irishman, screaming at me in half-spanish to make the remote work so that he can watch Scrubs, is just what anyone needs in their life. Three dogs (two little salchichos) running and yapping around while the Carabineros play pool, wildly entertaining.

And, I get to tell people what to do ALL day. Can I do my laundry? No. Should I buy bootleg DVDs? yes. Is it ok to have sex in my room while there are other people in it? I'm sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

Perhaps this is my true calling. Everyone has to listen. To me.

La Pequeña Gigante

I am scared of many things. As most people know, these are by and large completely unreasonable fears, just shy of being full on phobias. For some reason, many of these things fall into the category of "things children are supposed to enjoy". As I work with children now, and have in the past, I have come into contact with many of these things more regularly than I might like.

The list is as follows (in ascending order of creepiness):

1) The Hobbit cartoon
2) Clowns (only with fully painted faces)
3) People in Character Suits (Mickey Mouse & the Jack in the Box man, in particular)
4) Character suits without people in them, laying on the side of the road
5) Mimes
6) People wearing just the head of a character suit, with regular clothes

You will find (something many people find odd) that puppets do not appear on the list. Why? Mostly because of Jim Henson, but more so because puppets are rarely people-sized, and therefore, if they were to become posessed by some sort of urge to kill or maim me I could most likely defend myself.

Of course, then there's La Pequeña Gigante, the giant marionette import from France who terrorized the streets of Santiago this past weekend.

She was supposed to be performance art, as the little troupe of traditionally clad Frenchman flew and danced and pulled her strings, taking her a on trip through downtown Santiago. On television, it was highly enjoyable to watch, if more for the spectacle of families lining the streets than for the ingenuity of the event. The idea that an old-fashioned puppet who spent most of her time sleeping and walking around brought families together to do something other than eat and watch television was very cool. However, there is a limit to how much I can take.

I reached that limit on Sunday afternoon, when La Pequeña Gigante finally captured her puppet rhino (as was her quest) and decided to enter my domain: Plaza Italia, just outside my apartment. Thousands of people gathered, waiting for her to wake up and reveal the rhino that she had captured. They waited and waited and waited, watching her sleep and sleep and sleep. Children screamed "Wake up lazy puppet!" as she slept past her announced wake-up time. They got anxious. Finally, the frenchmen appeared, she stood up, the clowd roared...blah blah blah. The rhino was revealed, and looked like a puppet rhino should.

It was clear that there was something to come, as we had waited so long and it was her final day in Santiago. So there was a confetti canon, and a live band, and a giant cymbal. But before that, before the merriment, there was the urine.

La Pequeña Gigante, having taken such a long nap and having (presumably) consumed three tons of water, decided that she would do what no proper lady-doll ever should: she hiked up her skirt, squatted, and peed in the street.

Call me American. Call me pretentious. This just didn't seem ok. There's something creepy about watching what is supposed to be a child, albeit a giant fake one, doing something so....intimate? dirty? bizarre?

La Pequeña Gigante scarred me. I'm going to update my list.

I'm going to link to someone's flickr set, because I believe that photog captures PGs creepiness better than I ever could.

Tremors

As it turns out, Santiago is on a fault line. Its a little one from what I hear, but it means that there are tremors all the time. Up to this point, I have slept through all of them. I thought maybe this was because I am a ridiculously heavy sleeper or something. But then, this happened:

rumble rumble rumble

Me: "Hey did you feel that?"
Friend in room: "Yes. What was it?"
Me: "Was that a tremor?"
Friend: "No, I think it was just a really big truck rolling down the street?"
Me: "You mean, like, a giant enourmous monster truck that we can feel five flights up? And that we've never felt before?"
Friend: "Shut up."

So tremors....not such a big deal?

Quickie

This will be a short little ditty, as I've just arrived back in town and was slammed (in a good way, I think) with a grant proposal due Friday. Wish me luck!

I arrived at my new apartment/office, missing one of my suitcases and dripping with sweat, to find that my wonderful pareja had painted the WHOLE thing, including my room. It rocks. I can't wait to post some photos, but I'm going to wait until there is some furniture. If you'd like to contribute the Office Furniture fund, let me know. Apparently we spent our whole budget on paint, chairs and a great big desk.

The benefits of living in the center of the city become more clear everyday. We can walk to lots of places. The corner store is actual on OUR corner. The postman can find us. Life is good.

So as I sit in my red and yellow office, at my very own desk (so official) I feel content.

Thanks for a great three weeks in NYC! I miss you all already.

Failure

As I prepare to head home, for what was supposed to be for good, I'm doing some thinking about what I'm coming back to.

I worked for six months in a school for children with mental disabilites, and got to know 5 children as well as I could. The situation was far from ideal for a number of reasons: My limited spanish, the rotating tias, behavioral issues. Sometimes I hear myself complaining about all of this and I think to myself "What did you expect Lauren? This is supposed to be hard. This is why you're here."

I was shocked by how difficult the past six months were. Everyday that I couldn't communicate with my tia, and everyday that I went home with bruises I was surprised that this was something I committed to. Beyond that, when I unofficially became the primary teacher for the class and spent hours trying to figure out how to keep them busy, I also lost sight of my real purpose in the class. My purpose was to be an extra set of hands, to get to know kids on a more personal level and support them in a way that the school couldn't.

I failed, and I can finally admit that.

I tried, but I didn't try hard enough. I played, but I didn't put my whole self into it. Mostly, I saw that something was happening, I thought that something was happening, and I didn't say anything.

On a Monday morning a few weeks ago, one of my girls came to class looking like she hadn't eaten in weeks, hadn't slept in days and was unable to focus or work. Something happened to her....anyone could see it.

But she couldn't tell me what had happened. She is shy with limited verbal skills. She sat in pain for an hour before one the tias finally said to me: "There is something wrong. We have to do something."

My first thought was of her brother. How during my first week, a tia sat me down and told me each child's horror story, of their poverty and neglect and abuse. I took it all in and didn't really hear it, not only because of the language barrier, but also because sometimes, there is only so much of what happens to children that you can really comprehend.

I put it all in the back of my mind, thinking my tia was being slightly dramatic, and trying to scare the gringa with how scary and horrible things are. I fooled myself into believe that because my kids had parents in their lives, they were better off.

So I knew that there was a possibility that my nine-year-old student was being abused by her brother. I knew and I didn't tell anyone. I assumed that if someone had told me, everything was being taken care of. It wasn't, and we were all to blame.

I blame her mother, for allowing her brother to live with her for so long. I blame the school's director, fo having to be convinced for an hour that we should call the police. I blame my tia for telling me that a child was being abused, and not telling me what to do about it. I blame everyone for putting me in a position that I wasn't qualified or prepared for. I blame myself for being the only one who saw that girl everyday and didn't say anything.

The nine-year-old told us, me and another tia who was helping me with the class, what happened to her. We had to coax her. Sunday had been her birthday. We asked her what she ate. We asked her about her presents. We asked her who hurt her.

The police came an hour later. They questioned us, asking over and over if we were sure we heard what we heard. I've never been more sure of anything. I feel asleep hearing her small voice repeating those three words. They took her away as quickly as they came. No one could find her mother (it isn't uncommon for people to change phone numbers, or not have a phone at all), so she would be at the gate at 1pm to pick up her daughter, and I'd have to explain why she wasn't there.

The rest of the school staff went to a meeting to discuss what happened. I wasn't invited, because I'm just a volunteer.

Life is hard. Choices are hard. The idealism that goes along with this job is a blessing and a curse. Its easy to feel like just by being in a child's life, with good intentions and a smile, is enough because so often it is. But there are times when you have to do more, when you can't be afraid to speak, or afraid to fail. There are times when idealism keeps you from seeing reality. There are times when you are going to realize that you aren't doing as much as you could be.

It all comes back to the little victories: The nine-year-old girl no longer lives with her brother, but in an hogar where we can visit, and check on her, and maybe put some constant volunteers. An autistic student finally learned my name. She asks for me when I'm not there.

We just keep learing. I'm convinced that my failure will actually make us better and will teach us something. At least I hope so.